


What Was Necessary...And Other Demons

by iwtv



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 18th century illness, Complicated Feels, Gen, Lots of Angst, M/M, Malaria, feels from hell, peach verse, season 4 finale references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 19:38:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12139632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwtv/pseuds/iwtv
Summary: He let the sobs come, closing his eyes so tightly he saw deep orange and black. James was going to die. Correction, he was going towatchJames die and there was nothing he could do about it.If only hating God were enough.“Thomas Hamilton?”He jerked, startled, and looked up. There, standing at the corner of the house directly across from him was a long-haired man with one leg. Thomas had not been called Hamilton in a long time and there should not have been anyone left alive on this side of the world—save for James— to have known him by it.





	What Was Necessary...And Other Demons

\--------------  
"At that point, Mr. Gates' faith in our mission, his faith in me, was lost.  
I had to use my judgment whether to let him abort our entire endeavor and see my plans, your plans, evaporate or to stop him.  
I stopped him."  
_"What did you do?"_  
"What was necessary."

-Flint and Eleanor  
\---------------

Thomas stood rigid as the doctor gathered up his supplies. Another trickle of sweat started down his neck. The Savannah summer was still here despite the changing color of the leaves outside. The doctor—Dr.Martin—looked utterly comfortable. Comfortable, but concerned as he faced Thomas.

“It’s either yellow fever or malaria,” he said. “Since there are no rashes or red marks of any kind I’m inclined to pronounce it the latter. You said you were both complaining of mosquitoes earlier this month, yes?”

Thomas nodded. The heat of the day now felt stifling. Malaria. Thomas’s mind swirled with unwanted facts about the illness, namely that it could be fatal.

“I’d advise you to stay away from wherever they seem to be concentrated, as it’s strongly believed that they are the carriers of the disease. There are already several cases throughout town. ”

Thomas bit back a moan. _A disease._ That was what it was, though he loathed the word.

“How can it be treated?” Thomas asked, cutting through Martin’s ramblings about how to best avoid mosquitoes.

The doctor handed him a tube-like vial filled with a strange brownish-white powder.

“Mix in some of this with food or drink. Judging by how severe his condition is, I’d say drink, as it’s unlikely you’re going to get much food in him until the fever comes down. This will help stop the fevers and especially chills. It will help him to get his body back in control.”

Thomas looked at the vial again.

“It’s proven to work?”

The doctor seemed thrown off by his question.

“Yes,” he answered slowly. “It’s a ground-up portion of a tree bark from Peru. The natives there have used it for centuries in treating malaria.”

Thomas curled it around in his fist.

“His prognosis at this point is hard to say,” Martin continued, glancing back at where his patient lay on the bed. “I have to tell you though, Mr. …I’m sorry, what was the name again?”

Thomas blinked. The blasted man had forgotten his damned name.

“McGraw. Thomas McGraw.”

“Very sorry, Mr. McGraw,” said Martin, dipping his head by way of apology. “I’ve had so many patients this year, please forgive m—”

“Will he live?” Thomas cut in.

Dr. Martin stilled. He pushed his spectacles up on his nose as they slid down from the heat, the only indication it bothered him.

“I cannot say yet. He’ll need constant attention as long as he’s feverish. He will continue to come in and out of consciousness. There may be brief times of complete lucidity and other times when he will be delirious. Rest assured it’s only the fever talking. As long as his symptoms do not worsen I’d say he has a fighting chance. He is an exceptionally strong man. May I ask if he was a militia man?”

_A fighting chance?_ Thomas heard the words as though he were far away. He shook his head and re-focused.

“The navy,” he replied weakly. Then, somehow he remembered their roles to play and knew he needed to speak of them.

“He is a close cousin to me on my mother’s side,” said Thomas without really looking at the doctor but rather the form on the bed over his shoulder.

“Ah, well, I am sorry this befell him,” said Martin in the same neutral tone as he’d said everything else.

He told Thomas when and how often to give James the powdered bark, but there was precious little else to be done aside from making him comfortable and trying to keep his nausea down so he could eat.

Thomas showed him to the door.

“Mosquitoes?” he said faintly.

This time Martin gave a rueful smile.

“It does not seem fair, does it? Such a tiny creature can inflict something so severe. Tend to him, Mr. McGraw. I’ll be back in 4 or 5 days—a week at most—with more powdered bark.”

Thomas shut the door behind him. He leaned heavily against it. He uncurled his fist and looked at the vial. From the bedroom he heard James’s voice. Quickly he came to the bedside and rested his palm on the cool cloth that rested on James’s forehead. He was under the covers, naked from the waist up and coated in sweat. He turned his head from side to side, eyes fluttering open.

“Thomas?”

His voice was like dried bark but his eyes looked clear. Thomas sat down beside him. He choked back a sob, swallowing it down fiercely.

“I’m here, my love.”

James looked at him through heavy lids.

“What did he say?”

“That you are strong as a bull.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Not a lie. Well, he said you are exceptionally strong. I added the bull part.”

He smiled down at James but James did not return it. He rolled his head towards Thomas and rested it there.

“Thomas…”

Thomas gathered James’s hand in his own. James squeezed it weakly.

“He said it is malaria, as you suspected, and that you have a severe case of it. But he’s given me something to help treat it. You’re going to be just fine.”

James’s eyes had closed. They fluttered open again to look at him. Thomas couldn’t help the tears that pricked his eyes, turning James into a blurry watercolor picture.

“You are going to be fine,” he repeated, forcing sincerity into it even though they both knew it wouldn’t fool James.

James let out a sigh, chest deflating. He made a soft moan and turned away from him, eyes closing. Thomas swallowed the rocks in this throat and re-wetted the cloth on his head. He wringed it and replaced it, smoothing out the wrinkles.

“Is there anything you need, something I can do? James?”

But James had lapsed back into sleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only movement from him. Thomas stared down at him until the tears pricked his eyes again and the sob rose in his throat. The air grew stifling again and he fled the house, flinging open the door. The sob rolled out of him as he gulped for fresh air. He gritted his teeth against it. There was simply no need to get this upset and go flying off the hinges, he told himself. James would be fine. They would take one day at a time. As long as he had the medicine, James’s fever should stay away. And with the fever gone, he would eat and therefore regain his strength. And he would live.

He _would._

Thomas clutched the wooden railing to the front porch until his fingers ached.

*

He spared only a couple of hours each day to work at the print shop and every minute of each hour was a private agony away from James. But they needed money, and by horse the journey was scarcely ten minutes. He left the house only when James seemed lucid or his fever was low and sped home as soon as he could.

In reality the place was a print shop, binding shop, and bookstore all rolled into a tall white building on the east side of town. Its previous owner had passed away and most in town considered Thomas to be the most qualified. Between his shop and James’s job as cabinetmaker they had been bringing in enough money not to rely solely on the peach orchard and the surrounding wilderness. They had reintegrated themselves into a society. More importantly James had fared better than they both had thought, being around people again.

How unfair, indeed, that it was nature and not civilization to once again threaten their peace.

The thought haunted Thomas all day as he returned home from the shop, feeling bitter.

James was awake but not very responsive. Thomas had had varying degrees of success with the powdered bark. James had taken some dissolved in water last night but no such luck today. The fever had him. He had all the covers to the bed pulled up to his chin, shivering.

“James please, you must try to drink,” Thomas urged him softly. “I can make some tea. Would that be better?”

He petted James’s damp hair off his forehead, which was hot to the touch despite his chills.

“I s-should’ve…should’ve n-never let her go there,” he chattered out, eyes closed and brow knitted in a hard knot.

Thomas suddenly felt cold inside.

“What?”

“My fault. It was my fault.”

Eyes refusing to open, James faced away from him as if in shame.

“James. James look at me. Please.”

Thomas cupped the sides of his face but James’s eyes only rolled up and then closed tightly. He coughed, which turned into a fit. Thomas helped to push him on his side and stripped off the covers. He swiped up the bedpan and James heaved into it. It was mostly just spit since he’d not eaten anything in two days. Then he dry heaved. Thomas winced at the sound. James curled onto his side, an arm wrapped around his stomach as the muscles contracted. At last he collapsed onto his back again and moaned.

“James?”

James moaned again. Thomas carefully laid his head across James’s chest. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest. Thomas listened intently, making certain it slowed down.

*

They all told him to go home when he was at the shop in the following days, remarking with concern on his physical appearance. He was guilty of several violations: untrimmed beard and uncombed hair, rumpled clothes and rings under his eyes. He jested the latter was simply his old man’s crow feet creeping in. They admired his good humor, though none of it remotely touched Thomas. He felt cold inside despite the late summer heat everyone complained about. He sweated it out like the rest of them but it didn’t matter. Nothing really did, save for James lying in bed, fading away.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to shake away the thought. Tomorrow. Tomorrow would mark exactly one week since Dr. Martin’s visit and his promise to return. Thomas knew the man had been busy. The whole town was afraid of the spread of the disease. He’d overheard stories of some people taking extra caution and treating patients as though they had the plague, quarantining them.

When someone suggested he might consider doing the same for his ill cousin and just let the doctor see him Thomas had exploded on the man, calling him a cold-hearted dandy prat. He left after that, less afraid of the man complaining to the town magistrate than he was of endangering his business, especially if the man was stupid enough to show his face again.

He rode over to the doctor’s residence but was told by a passerby the doctor had been out all day on calls. That was fine because Thomas had already planned on visiting the apothecary. He sped across the street and went inside the medicine shop. The owner was not behind the counter but his son was. Somehow, amongst baffling array of jars and strangely-colored things covering the shelves, they had no Peruvian bark.

“Fresh out. What’dya expect?” the young man said with a shrug. “Everyone’s stocking up.”

Thomas bit back his immediate retort. “And when do you expect to get more in?”

Another shrug. “Don’ know. But I can take your name down if you’d like and you can check back in later this week? My father should be here.”

Thomas sighed and rubbed his temples. “All right, yes, fine.”

He returned home with a sinking feeling. He had enough powder left for two more days, at most. James had taken a larger dose yesterday and thus far his fever had remained low but he could not seem to shake it. He’d begun losing weight as well.

Dwelling on these thoughts Thomas entered the bedroom but the bed was devoid of James. His heart skipped a beat.

“James?”

Thomas spun around inside the room. He rushed over to the other side of the bed. There James was, slumped up against the bedpost. He looked up when Thomas’s shadow fell across him. He looked exhausted but his eyes were clear.

“James! Jesus.”

Thomas knelt down beside him.

“Let’s get you back into be—”

“I love you.”

Thomas sighed. “I love you too. Now up, please.”

But James didn’t move. His arm was dead weight when Thomas tried to put it over his shoulder.

“James please. I need you to try and lift up—”

James coughed but shook his head.

“I _love_ you,” he said again, struggling to speak.

Thomas closed his eyes and let out a breath.

“I don’t say it enough, I know. I’m sorry,” he continued.

Thomas opened his eyes. James’s head hung down. He let out a shaky breath. His suffering was palpable to Thomas.

“My darling, I _know._ I know,” Thomas repeated softly, stroking James’s cheek. “How could I not?”

James leaned his head back against the bed. He coughed again, deep enough that it shook Thomas’s bones.

“James please you must get back into bed,” Thomas pleaded.

“I never said it at all in London,” said James, eyes closing. “I should have. Should’ve said it to _her_ more. I’m so sorry.”

James sobbed, eyes squeezing shut. Thomas was stunned. He knew all of James’s demons by name: Sorrow, Guilt, Shame, and Self-Loathing. But this one—self-pity— was foreign to him. James could weep. He could rage. But he had _never_ felt sorry for himself, and not over something as trifling as failing to speak the words that both Thomas and Miranda had known were already engrained on his heart.

“James McGraw, look at me.”

James did so, eyes bleary and red and heavy.

“Miranda knew you loved her, every day of her life and right up until she died. You think that saying the words means more than trying to reshape the world in our names? Christ James, no one on this earth could love any more than you do!”

James sobbed again, face contorted. Then suddenly he went slack all over, eyes rolling up in his head. He moaned and Thomas had to grab him to keep him from falling over.

“Goddamnit James!” he gritted out as he hefted him up the side of the bed, using it to half-slide James far enough up so that he could grab a fistful of his pants and push him onto the mattress. James moaned again and curled onto his side automatically.

Thomas sat down and watched him for a few more minutes, then left the bedroom, trying not to think about James’s words. He would read to him. Yes. He’d read some the night before and it had helped calm him. He’d even managed to sleep some.

He knew just the book.

He went to his writing desk and pulled it open. There were several pamphlets there and copies of several satirical authors but not _Meditations._ Frowning, Thomas scanned the small bookcase but to no avail. He’d sworn he left it in his desk.

He strode back into the bedroom and quietly checked both his and James’s bedside tables, then began sifting through the dresser drawers. Where the bloody hell was it? Had James read from it last? But they only ever left books in the places Thomas had already checked.

Frustrated, Thomas went back to his writing desk. Surely he overlooked it. He started pulling everything out of it, growing more agitated by the minutes.

“Where the fuck is it?” he hissed out loud.

To the bookcase again. His eyes swept over each and every binding methodically, but he would recognize _Meditations_ from a hundred yards away. It was not there.

He searched under things and inside things. He even checked the kitchen and the few cooking books there. In a flash of pure anger he sent the cooking books flying across the room. One of them was lucky enough to hit a vase and break it. He stormed outside where his anger gave way to despair. He slumped against the side of the house. It was as if a raging flood had struck him and forced everything out of him at once. He let the sobs come, closing his eyes so tightly he saw deep orange and black. James was going to die. Correction, he was going to _watch_ James die and there was nothing he could do about it.

If only hating God were enough.

“Thomas Hamilton?”

He jerked, startled, and looked up. There, standing at the corner of the house directly across from him was a long-haired man with one leg. Thomas had not been called Hamilton in a long time and there should not have been anyone left alive on this side of the world—save for James— to have known him by it.

Thomas forced himself to stand.

“Who are you?” he asked curtly.

The man took a step closer, swaying heavily as he moved his crutch. Thomas took in his dark clothes and thick bejeweled belt. There were scars on his face. He could have been a highwayman, but the one leg had Thomas’s mind reeling before the man even spoke again.

“My name is John Silver,” said the man.

*

John Silver. Thomas looked him up and down again. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Silver could have appeared in a dress and Thomas would not have been any less shocked.

“ _Long_ John Silver?” Thomas finally managed. It would have been rude to poke the man, to make sure he was not imaginary, so he’d settle on this assurance instead.

Silver looked at him evenly with a pair of eyes whose hue matched his own. He let out a sigh.

“I do not go by that name anymore, but yes. Is…is he here?”

Thomas caught the hesitation. He swallowed hard, forcing the stone in his throat down again. He immediately felt very protective of what lay inside. He gripped the wooden railing hard.

“He is,” he offered after Silver’s lips pulled tight and he shifted uncomfortably. He took another step forward. Thomas let go of the railing and gestured toward the stairs.

“Your timing, I’m afraid, couldn’t be worse,” he added plainly as Silver loped up the stairs with remarkable speed. He stopped short at the top, looking directly at Thomas.

“He is very ill,” explained Thomas. “He has malaria.”

Suddenly he was aware of his own appearance, of how red his face must be and how evident his weeping was to the other man. Silver blinked rapidly. Thomas saw his jaw tighten.

“May I come in?”

Thomas paused again, unable to keep from looking Silver over as though he were up for inspection, but Silver seemed as inclined to do the same.

Thomas stepped aside from the door and offered his home to Silver.

He wasn’t surprised in the least when Silver seemed to sniff out the way to the bedroom and without so much as another word made his way there. Thomas followed behind him, growing apprehensive. At the doorway he reached out and grabbed Silver’s arm hard. Silver stopped and looked sharply at him.

“Please, try to be quiet,” said Thomas, nodding at his crutch. “He doesn’t need the shock right now.”

He did not add that he worried James’s heart might give out if he saw Silver. James had told Thomas many things about their time together. Many things.

Thomas tried not to recollect them just now as Silver stilled himself. He very carefully set his crutch down one step at a time, making only a very small thudding sound until he was at the bed post.

James had not moved much since Thomas had left, thank God. But even at a distance Thomas could see the sweat on him. He moved to the other side of the bed and picked up the washcloth. He wiped it gently over James’s forehead, soothing back his hair. Then he wrung it over his throat and gently wiped at his neck.

“He comes in and out of lucidity,” said Thomas. “The fever plays tricks with him. Sometimes he says things. If I could just keep the fever down, the doctor says—”

“And where is the doctor?”

Like he and James, Silver seemed to have as little use for politeness these days either. Thomas glanced up. Silver leaned against one raised arm but his hand was a fist. He was staring intently down at James, jaw clenched tight.

“He has many patients,” Thomas replied with as much calm as he could. “He promised to return with more medicinal bark but he has not. And I have little left to keep his fever in check.”

Thomas dabbed over James’s cheeks, glad to see the flush there and on his neck less today. He bent down and pressed his ear to James’s chest. There was still that sickly rattle there; if James breathed too deeply he’d wake up in a coughing fit.

“What about the apothecary?” Silver asked. His voice was pulled like taunt canvas.

“I was just here. They are out of stock until the next delivery.”

“And when is that?”

Thomas clenched his teeth and didn’t answer. He folded down James’s covers to his waist and dunked the washcloth in the bowl of water again.

“If you don’t mind terribly, Mr. Silver, I’m going to wash him down properly so if you’ll wait outside.”

It was not a request. He met Silver’s gaze again. Silver’s eyes were fiery, but with what Thomas wasn’t sure. He nodded slowly, reluctantly, as if realizing he was a guest here for the first time. Thomas waited until he was gone. Then he let out a long and heavy sigh. He methodically washed James’s top half, using just a small sliver of soap but not enough to warrant washing him out of bed. Then he did the same with James’s lower half. He slowly and carefully re-dressed him. James moaned and shifted a little but did not wake.

Thomas sat there for another moment, wondering if he would ever get to kiss James’s thighs or trace the clusters of tiny brown marks on his pale skin again. Then he redirected his energy towards the other man in his house, wiping the tears out of his eyes as he rose.

It occurred to him briefly that he was exhausted.

Silver was sitting on the edge of a kitchen table chair. He leaned on his crutch with both hands, head bowed. He looked up and tensed when he saw Thomas.

Thomas took up the chair across from him.

“Forgive me if I sound overly curt,” he began. “I have not been sleeping well.”

“It’s fine,” said Silver with a wave of his fingers. “I…am sorry this happened. Do you know if he will…”

Thomas rubbed his fingers over the backs of his eyelids, trying to relieve the slight burning. Silver did not finish his thought. When Thomas opened his eyes Silver’s countenance faltered for a second. Thomas smiled ruefully.

“He should, if I can get more damned bark. The doctor said he has a fighting chance.”

Silver looked away, eyes roaming over the room. Thomas warred with himself over what to say next. They ended up both speaking at the same time.

“How did you find—” said Thomas.

“You’ve done well for yourselves—” began Silver.

They both stopped.

“Thank you,” Thomas said at length. Silver turned slowly to look at him.

“For bringing him to me,” he finished. “As I understand it, you specifically sought me out at Oglethorpe’s; you’d deducted that I might be one of England’s naughty unmentionables there.”

He allowed the sarcasm to seep into his tone, forcing a crooked grin on his face and looking Silver squarely in the eye. But Silver didn’t flinch away.

“Yes, I did.”

Thomas fell silent, although Silver looked as if bracing himself for something awful. He did not offer up a ‘you’re welcome.’ If anything, Thomas thought Silver looked more uncomfortable, licking his lips and drumming his fingers over the table top. Thomas rubbed a finger over his lips and let the silence stretch between them.

“Can I offer you some tea, or a peach?” Thomas asked at last.

*

The next few days felt surreal to him. Dr. Martin appeared early the next morning with the powdered bark, apologizing for his lateness and informing him that the wagon transporting his medicine had broken down earlier in the week. Thomas could have pummeled him and might have threatened it had Silver not been there.

He offered Silver the living room to stay but Silver insisted he had a room at the inn. Yet he showed up at their doorstep each morning to check on James. And each morning Thomas allowed him time alone with James, though part of him loathed it.

Then Silver would leave. Thomas would offer him food and drink and that was as far as he could muster his hospitality.

And very interestingly, it seemed as much as Silver expected from him.

One morning Silver emerged from the bedroom carrying a book. Thomas had been cleaning out the ashes from the fireplace and dumping them into a basket to toss outside. He rose and looked at the book in Silver’s hands as Silver placed it on the table. It was Meditations.

“I accidentally kicked it from under the bed,” he said.

*

One thing was clear: their concern was for James and James alone. That sole fact kept Thomas from speaking his mind about certain other issues to his lover’s old quartermaster.

And it seemed that the bark was finally having a more lasting effect on James. Thomas was able to get him to drink more, and his fever broke in longer intervals. He was still very weak, and his cough was worrisome. But Thomas hoped.

One night when James was lucid and sitting up in bed he asked Thomas who else had been visiting besides the doctor.

“I swore I heard another voice, familiar even,” James mused.

Thomas said nothing but smiled as warmly as he could. It had the desired effect.

“Just the fever, then,” said James.

Thomas climbed into bed beside him just as another coughing fit hit. He offered James the bedpan but James pushed it away. Even so his eyes screwed shut and he doubled over, sounding as though he could cough up the very marrow from his bones. When at last the coughs ceased he leaned back, exhausted.

Thomas kissed his cheek, stroking his thumb along his beard. James hummed in response and took Thomas’s hand in his own. He fell asleep soon afterward.

“You are going to live, do you hear me?” he whispered to James, lifting his hand to kiss the back of it.

He tried to imagine once again what it might have been like for James; standing on a strange island with a pistol pointed at him, wielded by the same man he’d put so much trust in. The _only_ person he’d put his trust in after Miranda had died. Knowing that the trigger would be pulled if he made the wrong choice.

Hot, angry tears burned his eyes.

*

They sat at the table again the next morning after Silver had gone to see James. Thomas watched Silver discreetly from the doorway as he had since the second day of his arrival. And as before Silver would stand over James, looking down at him, brows deeply furrowed. Once or twice Thomas heard words fall from his lips. They were as soft and tender as anything Thomas had spoken to James, though he could not make out the words themselves.

This morning Silver had accepted pancakes alongside a simple glass of water. He waited until Silver had finished and moved to get up and leave.

“A moment,” said Thomas, sitting up straight.

Silver sat back down again, leaving his crutch against the table beside him.

Thomas steepled his fingers together and let out a breath before speaking.

“I’m wondering if my ‘thank you’ from the first day you arrived here was enough for you,” he said.

Silver’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What? What do you mean?”

“I gave you my thanks for allowing James and I to be reunited. You seemed oddly quiet after that, so I wondered if perhaps you were expecting more. Was I too curt again?”

Silver drew back in his chair, bracing himself with a palm wrapped around its edge. His eyes darted over Thomas’s face.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr. McGraw.”

“What I mean is, should I have thanked you more for what you did? All of it. Should I be thankful that you found it within your heart not to shoot him dead like a dog on that island? That you let him believe I was still dead weeks after finding out otherwise?”

Something in Silver changed, shifted. He rose out of the chair, jaws tight.

“Now wait just a minute…”

Thomas scooted roughly out of his chair and leaned over the table at him.

“Do not insult me by lying to me, Mr. Silver. It took him some time, but eventually he told me about those final days. And when he told me about Skeleton Island, do you know that I had to drag it from him, what you did? And then, he tried to _justify_ it to me, all these reasons why you acted the way you did. He tried to _defend_ you, do you know that?”

Silver’s chest moved visibly up and down, nostrils flaring.

“It was the last thing in the world I wanted, putting him in that position…”

Something in Thomas broke.

“Bullshit! Then why in the bloody hell did you do it? You could have rescued him right back from Oglethorpe’s! Or better yet, you could have gotten me out of there and never had him there in the first place, for God’s sake!”

“There wasn’t any time, damn you!” Silver shouted back. “You have to understand, I was trying so fucking hard, even when I fucking _knew_ he was doubting me and my intentions. There was a fucking devil whispering in my ear to kill him, and I had to threaten to kill him for fear of him leading us all to our deaths! It was torture of the worst kind.”

Thomas felt himself trembling all over. He rounded the table. Silver looked at him desperately.

“If he told you everything then surely he told you exactly what that war meant to him,” Silver said softly, tears in his eyes.

Thomas forced himself to still, fists at his side.

“He wasn’t only willing to die for the cause, he _wanted_ it. It was the only thing left for him after you and Miranda. Literally. Don’t you see? I knew this when I had him on that island, but I refused to give him death. Instead, I gave him a life, with you.”

Silver stepped up to Thomas so that Thomas could hear him breathe, blue eyes blazing into his own.

“What fucking right do you or anyone else have to make me into the monster? I wanted to _live,_ goddamnit!”

Thomas smiled bitterly. “What right do I have? I’ll tell you, Mr. Silver. I have the right of all lovers who have lost everything, who are reunited with their loved ones only to discover they have lived through hell. I have the right to love him and not give a damn about anyone else’s needs when they point a gun at him, even if all they want is to live.”

Silver sneered. “If you love him as strongly as you claim then perhaps you wouldn’t have been so careless in London and James wouldn’t have had to suffer anything.”

His fist connected with the flesh of Silver’s cheek the next second. Silver stumbled over the chair, grabbing his crutch. Thomas came at him again. Silver swung the crutch. It hit Thomas’s side hard. He ripped it out of Silver’s hand and they both fell onto the floor. Silver kneed him hard in the stomach, fists grabbing his collar. Thomas managed to land a blow into Silver’s ribs once, twice. Silver winced and let go but not before slamming Thomas down hard against the floor.

Thomas rolled away and scrambled to his feet. Miraculously Silver had done the same, hefting himself up with the help of a rocking chair. Thomas came at him again, ducking away from Silver’s fist but not in enough time for a second blow to his mouth. He stumbled backward. Silver made as if to lunge after him but clung to the chair instead.

“What _the fuck_ is going on in here?”

James was leaning against the wall, looking at both of them in bewilderment.

*

Thomas stilled, blinking in surprise. James leaned heavily against the wall, eyes darting between the two of them. Thomas couldn’t tell if he was more angry or more bewildered. He crossed the room, trying not to clutch at his side where Silver’s crutch had impacted. Thomas caught James just in time before he fell reaching for the kitchen chair.

“Jesus,” muttered Thomas. James sat in the chair, fatigued but as clear-headed and lucid as Thomas had seen him in weeks.

“Oh thank god.”

The words fell from lips, trembling. Silver or no Silver he hugged James to him, hand hooking around his neck and face nuzzling against James’s cheek.

“I’m going to be all right,” James said in a much softer tone, looking at Thomas with clear green eyes. Thomas was overjoyed, but the feeling was quickly dampened.

“May I please have my fucking crutch?”

Thomas winced and sneered at the sound of Silver’s voice. His crutch lay near Thomas’s feet.

“Why? I think it would make excellent kindling,” retorted Thomas.

“Thomas,” James said in a tired voice. He nodded down at the wooden object.

Frowning openly Thomas picked it up and handed it to Silver, who was still supporting himself on the rocking chair. Silver tucked the crutch under his arm and visibly straightened. He looked at Thomas coolly but said, “Thank you.”

Thomas snorted. They both returned to the table. Silver and James regarded each other for the first time and Thomas watched as both men’s expressions shifted, like maps where something significant was added but he failed to comprehend what it was. Except for when James’s brows lifted as they did now. That was compassion written there.

“It’s good to see you,” said Silver. His tone had changed dramatically. Now he refused to meet James’s eyes. So.

“Perhaps we should talk a bit later, when you’re feeling better,” Silver said. His gaze flicked to Thomas with genuine concern. Thomas was loath to admit Silver had a point.

“I’m sitting. I can’t stand another minute in bed,” replied James. “And…it’s good to see you too.”

Silver looked up sharply. He had not been expecting the words, clearly. Thomas cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry Mr. Silver, but I need a few moments in private with him, if you don’t mind stepping outside.”

He was in no mood to politely ask, nor was he in a mood for whatever argument seemed to be brewing on Silver’s face. But then Silver simply nodded and made for the door.

Thomas let out a long breath. He was shaking. When had that happened? He cupped James’s face in his palms and kissed him. James’s lips were still dry and chapped but he kissed Thomas back just as hard.

“I’m all right,” he said again.

“I know, but I was so worried, I thought I was going to lose you. Permanently this time.”

The tears rose in his eyes, unbidden. They were in James’s as well.

“I know,” said James. “And I know I said things, things I should not have said—”

Thomas shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

James slowly nodded, brushing his fingertips over Thomas’s jaw and pulling him into another kiss. Then he looked at the door.

“I need to speak with him, just the two of us,” he said.

Thomas sighed. He wasn’t certain he even wanted Silver here at all. But that didn’t seem to matter at the moment. He nodded.

“I know. I need to go check on the garden anyway. I’ll be just outside.”

Jade eyes filled his own, so that Thomas could have easily gotten lost within them as he often did. But he reigned himself in. James was asking for his understanding now.

Silver stood looking out at the orchard from the porch, turning as Thomas stepped outside.

“You can speak to him,” he said, rather enjoying giving permission to Silver to speak to James. “But don’t tire him out. He’s still very weak. And here.”

Thomas pushed the small vial of powdered bark into Silver’s hands from where he kept it in his waistband.

“You supposedly care about him so make sure he takes this with some tea or water while you’re in there.”

Silver looked down at the vial. When he met Thomas’s gaze again there was none of the earlier anger there.

“I will,” he said.

*

“I’m assuming it’s not the best tasting,” mused Silver as James drank from a teacup, grimacing.

“No, it is not.”

He finished another long drink and then sat the teacup down quickly. He caught the tiniest curve of Silver’s lips. Then Silver flicked a wrist at their surroundings.

“Modest and isolated. I rather like it.”

“We built it from nothing. Almost didn’t finish it in time for our first winter.”

“Winters must be cooler here than in the West Indies.”

“The nights, perhaps. But not by much.”

After the last words had fallen away Silver shifted. It seemed to James that he dragged his eyes to meet his own.

“It took a little time but I managed to track you down out of Savannah. I never supplied anyone with your last name, not knowing what you’d call yourself. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you took back your legitimate name.”

“And you? Am I talking to Long John Silver, or just John Silver?”

“The latter. I am no more a pirate or a legend anymore than you are.”

James raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

Silver finally allowed himself to sit back and relax a little.

“That surprises you?”

James turned away from him, licking his lips.

“And Madi?” he asked instead.

Silver tensed. His eyes wondered over the table top.

“We are still together. She’s taken over the Maroon camp. The treaty I spoke of implementing succeeded. It’s still holding. For now.”

James saw there was more to it. He had a sinking feeling in his chest that Silver and Madi were not on the best of terms. When Silver looked up again it was written on his face.

“I don’t want to talk about her just now,” he said a little too quickly.

James looked at him, taking him in all over again. His mind went to that place on that island, saw Silver standing before him, the pistol shaking in his hand.

“What do you want to talk about, then?” he asked.

Silver’s brows pulled together, nostrils flaring ever so slightly.

“I thought that perhaps…”

Silver’s hand curled into a fist and he looked at the door.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came here or what the fuck I want to say.”

He let out a self-deprecating chuckle.

“I did what I thought was right that day,” he added, flashing a glance to James and swallowing.

“And if I had to do it over again, I honestly do not know what I could have done differently. But I wish there was something, some way it didn’t have to end like that. I did not want it.”

Silver’s voice was dangerously close to cracking as it had that day on the island and James didn’t know if he could bear it a second time.

“You were thinking of Madi,” James managed to say. “If it had been me in your position, and Thomas…”

He trailed off and closed his eyes. Everything hurt. Physically his body still seemed to ache even without the fever. The pain in his chest, however, had nothing to do with his sickness.

“It is what it is,” he said at last.

Silver looked at him, head resting into his hand. He sat up straight, looking miserable.

“Then why in God’s name do I still feel this way? After all these months?”

He sounded desperate for an answer to his question and James finally understood it all.

“You were right,” Silver said in a whisper. “You fucking cursed me, James Flint. You cursed me.”

Silver eyes slipped closed. James pushed himself up from the table—needing to lean on its edge for support—and sat down next to him. Silver was watching him with concern.

“You should lie down.”

“Listen to me.”

It was a soft command. Silver blinked, looking at him.

“You are my friend. And I love you. And I forgive you. But I don’t think you came here seeking my forgiveness.”

Silver swallowed hard. He blinked furiously, trying to keep the moisture out of his eyes.

“Why are you saying this?” he breathed out.

James ran a hand down his beard.

“Because it’s true,” he replied. “And one of the reasons we became caught in the predicaments we were in was because we weren’t honest about our feelings. And because I’m too fucking old and tired to keep up the façade, and I have back what was taken from me, thanks to you. But you already know how I feel, how I cannot be anything but grateful towards you about how it ended. But _Thomas_ , he could never understand it. He never knew Flint. But he could know _you._ ”

*

“He told me that he wasn’t the only reason I felt the need to come here,” Silver said after a prolonged silence between them.

Thomas had watered the garden, which only took a few minutes, and had spent the next few on the porch, mind sprawling in five directions at once. Silver had come out and had stood a few feet apart from him. Neither had spoken until now.

“He has an uncanny ability to see through me, though it wasn’t always so,” Silver added almost wistfully. Thomas glanced at him. The curiosity he’d tried to ignore stubbornly came to the surface again. Still he frowned.

They were both gazing out at the rows of peach trees. Thomas knew Silver wasn’t any more interested in them than he was at the moment.

“Why, then, did you come?” Thomas asked with strained patience.

Silver inhaled deeply.

“To see you, I suppose. To see you with him.”

For the first time Thomas faced him in the light of day. The sun made his jet black hair and beard shine. Despite the length of both Thomas could tell the man underneath it all was younger than he and James. His expression was guarded.

“And why was that important?” Thomas asked, like pulling teeth. Silver seemed to notice.

“Because I care for him, despite what you or anyone else may think. I needed to know he was…content. That he finally got what he needed all these years.”

“Me.”

Thomas didn’t know he’d meant it as a statement or a question and his cheeks grew hot. This was his own insecurity speaking; the worry that James had changed so much during their time apart that he might never be whole again. Thomas inwardly cursed himself. But.

He _was_ curious about Silver, about James’s time with him. And each time James exposed a little more of their past together the more Thomas wanted to know. He knew how difficult it was for James to trust another person, so the fact that an unremarkable young man—a sneaky little shit, as James had put it—had managed to not only gain James’s trust but to the extent that he became his only friend, both baffled and amazed Thomas.

And ‘sneaky little shit’ was certainly not how Thomas would describe the hardened pirate before him.

“I did what I had to do,” Silver said again. He’d turned to face Thomas, supporting himself with a hand on the porch railing. He looked defiant.

How he must have suffered the loss of his leg, Thomas thought randomly. James had told him that particular story.

There was moisture gathering in Silver’s eyes, dark brows drawing up into an expression of suffering Thomas knew too well.

“I don’t need your pity, or even your forgiveness,” Silver continued. “I don’t give a fuck. But I do need you to understand.”

Thomas waited with baited breath. Silver’s mouth clamped shut.

Thomas approached him until they stood inches apart. Blue eyes penetrating blue eyes.

“Do you love him?” Thomas asked. Silver stifled back some noise in his throat. Thomas was forced to realize the torture Silver was going through, wanting to say the words but terrified of them. He heard Silver swallow.

“Yes.”

A broken sound.

Thomas exhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath.

“Have you told him?”

“He knows.”

_That’s not what I asked_ , Thomas thought but he did not voice it. It had taken James quite some time after their relationship had grown serious to say the words.

That memory softened Thomas’s rougher edges and he forgot about wanting to hit Silver more.

Thomas could not change or mold that particular fact to fit into a form that allowed him to hate Silver. It simply would not happen. And, truth be told, he did not want to hate him. He had hated others in the last ten years. The process took too much energy. It took him away from himself.

“I am going to believe you,” Thomas finally said. “That whatever transpired on that island, you believe that you did what was necessary.”

Silver’s lips were drawn tight. He blinked.

“And I am going to believe that you care for him, deeply,” he added, since Silver had refused to speak the words. “I do not think, nor will I ever, that you did what you _could_ have done to see James and I safe and together, but neither can I say that you have done entirely wrong. Because—and it makes my entire being ache, Mr. Silver, to think of it—I fully believe that James would be dead right now if not for you. He has told me, in bits and pieces, of the man he’d become as a pirate, of how he was consumed by his mission.”

Silver blinked again and gave a nod.

“He was. Though I am glad to hear you refer to Flint in the past tense.”

The sentiment came out easily and sounded genuine enough. Thomas relaxed further. He sighed and turned back to the orchard.

“He is not an easy man to love sometimes.”

And, to his astonishment, Silver chuckled.

“No, he isn’t.”

Thomas half-smiled. He had not meant it to be humorous, but he needed a laugh. It felt good to smile again, after all he’d been through the past few weeks. And suddenly he needed to check on James again.

They both returned indoors. James was still sitting at the table, hand cupped around his tea. He looked exhausted but looked up at both of them with some anxiety.

“Mr. Silver and I have…” Thomas started, but realized he had no clue what to say.

“…Started working out our differences,” Silver finished, looking at him. Thomas nodded and gave a little grunt.

That would do. For now.

“Well, I should be going,” Silver continued. “You clearly won’t be of any use for a while,” he said to James, who snorted.

“And I need to make certain everything is settled back home,” he finished.

Thomas saw the look James gave him, but Silver gave a small shake of his head. Whatever that was about, it wasn’t going to be discussed now.

“Will you be returning?” James asked.

“I…don’t know. Should I?”

“Yes,” James answered quickly. He threw Thomas a contrite look. Thomas frowned but nodded.

“That would acceptable,” he chimed in.

Silver seemed visibly relieved. James rose to see him to the door, despite protests from Thomas who didn’t want him setting foot outside. James lingered in the doorway. Silver looked at him and James found himself in Silver’s embrace, strong arms clutching him tightly. Before he could reciprocate the arms withdrew just as fast but Silver’s gaze was steady.

God, how James had missed him.

“Thank you for not dying,” Silver said. A little smirk. James returned it.

“Thank you for watching over me.”

“I didn’t really—”

“You did. Thank you.”

Silver nodded. They said good-bye and Silver left, promising to return in a couple of weeks or thereabouts.

Later that night as they lay in bed (where James had spent the rest of the day, still weak and with a bad cough), James nudged Thomas away from his book. He’d tried reading himself but his eyes kept growing too heavy and there were things on his mind.

Thomas put down his book.

“Do you wish to see him again?” James asked.

There was a long pause, and then, “Yes. He seems eager to leave the past behind…the less pleasant parts of it anyway. Whatever fell apart between the two of you it’s clear it did not destroy what was built beforehand. I would never try and deprive you of someone else’s love, James.”

Thomas turned to him with earnest eyes. James turned on his side to face him, eyes seeing through him like a pane of glass.

“There’s something else. What is it?”

Thomas huffed out a sigh.

“If I…if there ever comes a time you decide…a decision must be made, I…”

It was perhaps the most inarticulate James had ever heard him, and he saw raw fear on his husband’s face. James curled his fingers gently around Thomas’s bare arm, pulling him in for a kiss and then shaking his head. All of it upset his system and he winced as another coughing fit racked deep within his lungs. Thomas mothered him over it, offered to get another glass of water but James held him tightly in place.

“Look at me.”

Thomas stilled and did so.

“I will love you and be with you until I’m dead. No one will come before you, not ever. Do you understand?”

Words spoken so matter-of-factly yet they punched Thomas in the gut just the same.

“But Silver…”

“Is my closest friend. If things had been different for us we could have been more. And yes, maybe we still will be. But no matter what does or does not happen between us, you are still my truest love.”

His voice cracked one the last word and Thomas whimpered, lips crashing into James’s. His heart soared. Suddenly John Silver was not the looming obstacle or threat Thomas had so often thought he would be. No. Perhaps he could even befriend the other man, especially if he and James were to repair their relationship.

So Thomas slept soundly that night, perfectly soundly for the first time in weeks. He felt the weight next to him, felt the warmth of the body there and when he awoke once in the middle of the night he saw the familiar shape of James’s backside, one broad and well-muscled arm exposed to the air.

He mused on John Silver. He did not know if he would like Silver or not, or if Silver could truly like him. Maybe. Maybe not. But as he closed his eyes again he took comfort in the knowledge that he was no longer afraid of a one-legged ghost haunting them, and that true peace for James seemed so very close at last.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't know how to tag Silver and Flint in this one but I tried to treat them channeling Steinberg and Levine-aka 'it's definitely love but what kind of love I don't know what you mean *winkwink* ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ And to those of you who have read all my other recent Flintham with a dash of Silverflint fics on here I'm sorry they all end basically the same, but honestly I can't get past the tentative friends stage with the three of them. I'm more content to read others' take on Silverflinthamilton. But for James's sake I will always try because I want him as close to completely happy as possible. <3
> 
> For more Sails or just to chat me up on tumblr i'm @iwt-v (just no wank, please).


End file.
